


Garbage

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Drug Use, Feels, M/M, Oedipal Issues, Trikey - Freeform, mentions of animal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drugs are integral to Trevor Philips, woven into his history and into his very existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garbage

Trevor’s first taste of alcohol was at the age of 8, after his second step-father had left. He remembers the sting of his eye, and the weight of the frozen peas in his numb hands. He remembers the hardness of the trailer steps underneath his bony body, and staring up at the sky. In the light thrown by the stars and the nearby trailers that were lucky enough to afford electricity, a beer bottle sitting on a nearby lawn chair glinted; it had his Mother’s bright red lipstick around the mouth. He wrapped his lips around the bottle; tasted the thick sweetness of the cosmetic, and almost wretched at the taste of the skunked light beer.

He drank it all.

Years later it was cigarettes, at the tender age of 13. Rough reds, slightly smoother menthols, whatever he could get his hands on. Smoking behind the dumpster of one of his many schools or behind the ice rink after a bloody practice, it was a way to ease himself into a crowd of other troubled youths, though he didn’t like them much and barely related. At that age (any age) he didn’t relate to anyone. Trevor didn’t smoke those for long, having stopped them by the time he had real aspirations of getting into the air force; cigarettes were terrible for you, and besides, he had no want to smoke them, not after what happened with Ma. Pot, once or twice, but no matter the strain the paranoia coupled with the cloying feeling downers gave him deceptively wrapped around his limbs like a strait jacket.

Cocaine was different. Cocaine was his first love, and like all first loves it was a whirlwind affair. So innocent and doe-eyed, he got his grubby hands on some at a party when he was 17. He just barged his way through the closed bathroom door and managed to bully a boy with blown pupils and red lips into giving him a free line or four. He rolled a blue kingfisher note into a tight tube and snorted it up, nice and smooth off the counter. It coated the inside of his nostrils, dripped thick and fast down the back of his throat. It made him feel powerful, handsome and sure. Trevor spent the rest of the party talking to people as if he gave a fuck; he ended up in that same bathroom with his pants around his ankles trying to thrust his limp cock into some girl he couldn’t remember the name of that night, let alone years later. Powerful, handsome and sure. Things he was definitely not. After the initial love affair, and more than a few convenience stores clumsily robbed to buy much-too-expensive baggies of powder, he partook much less regularly. He loved the feel, the thrum of go go _go_ , but It made him feel fake.

(Mikey _loved_ coke, would practically motorboat a pile like it was Amanda’s big, obnoxious tits if he had the option to do so.)

There was a period that him and Mikey would go out to clubs, especially after a big heist, and outside Trevor would find the skeeziest looking guy grinding his teeth to nubs and buy powder or pills from. Aliens, peace signs or cartoon characters, Trevor would take his right away, and Michael would hem and haw, making a full-on commentary on what the characters looked like, what show they were about, and why the fuck was he taking this shit, anyway? But Trevor would prompt him and after swirling his beer around he would eventually take it.

They usually got coke, or ecstasy; the towns they stayed in were too small, were too shitty, and they never stayed long enough to get better connections no matter how filthy Trevor looked. And Trevor looked. He didn’t want to swallow pills cut with pressed baby powder or Ritalin. There was a hunger in the pit of his belly, his next big high.

Once, they got pure ecstasy, MDMA, the stuff kids and profiteering rappers nowadays called _molly_ if he listened to that garbage. Michael was already in the club, leaving Trevor shivering outside to score something. He would have mistaken her for a call girl if she hadn’t flashed her jacket and showed a hint of baggies instead of tit. “Well hee- _lo_ , sweet heart. Or should I call you Snow White?”

“Baby, I got something better than _that_ drag.” She cooed, scooting closer to Trevor in an effort to keep her voice low. She fished through her coat with thick gloves, pulling out a small bag. Inside contained a single rock, a milky brown and yellow mixture. Trevor’s brow furrowed. “It’s pure E, baby. Pure. Guarantee it.”

Less than five minutes later, Trevor was pushing his way to the front of the bar, shouldering people without much of a care. His focus was on Michael. He slid up next to him, the bag hidden in a tightly clutched hand.

“And, y’know, sometimes you just gotta live your days one day at a time,” Michael drawled to a pretty blonde, gesturing with his bottle, “That’s how I see it, anyway—“

Trevor leaned over, muttered something in his ear; Mikey swiped his eyes over the woman once, rolled his shoulders, and nodded. He smiled, so charming, touching her shoulder gingerly; she tittered. “Baby, give me and my friend a second? Stay here. We’ll be right back.”

He pushed himself off his stool, and Trevor eagerly followed suit like an overexcited Labrador. They were swallowed up in the din of the club almost immediately. “Mikey, M, brother. You would not _believe_ —a hot little number outside gave us something great. I mean, like, beeee-yootiful.”

Michael’s eyebrows pushed his hairline upward. He waded through the crowd with ease, Trevor dogging his heels. “Is this the usual, or—?”

“Not coke—but E. Real pure shit. It’s a rock— no a fucking _boulder_.” Trevor held his hands up in a hyperbolic pantomime as Michael shouldered open the door of the bathroom. “You could propose to someone with this fucker right here. Giant. You owe me one, you tubby fuck.”

Michael groaned, shelving his bottle on top of the nearest urinal as he fumbled with his zipper. “How the fuck are we taking a rock? We can’t smoke in here.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. Typical, _innocent_ Michael, acting like he was so pure, so much better than the hard shit. Trevor slid into one of the stalls, calling back, “Come and piss in here and I’ll show you. I think we’ll manage to fit me and your fat ass, if you hold your breath and suck it in—“

The door of the stall smacked his back, just hard enough to sting and make Trevor grunt in annoyance. He pushed it closed as Michael shoved his body much too close to his, trying to center himself in front of the toilet. “Har. Har. Very funny.” Michael’s zipper was already undone, and he was already pulling his dick out while Trevor was still locking the door. “So how are we doing this, oh wise, wonderful T.”

Trevor didn’t have to look over. He could hear the eye rolling in Michael’s voice; besides, he couldn’t, _shouldn’t_ look over, not with Michael’s dick out like that. He held up the plastic baggie against the wall of the bathroom, using the blunt nail of his thumb to crunch the large rock in half. He reached down, jerking toilet paper out of the dispenser’s unwilling grasp. “We’re parachuting it.” He muttered, tongue pushing into his cheek in concentration. Even the notion that Michael’s dick was out in his near vicinity couldn’t distract his shaking hands as he wrapped each rock with a small ripped piece of toilet paper, twisting it secure. “Where’s your beer?”

Michael’s pissing immediately stopped, and he let out a groan before he continued. “I left it out on the urinal—“Trevor sighed, twisting around to lean heavily against the side of the stall with a thump. Someone banged their fist back in reply, and he deftly flipped his middle finger up and over the divider. His eyes lowered. Michael was shaking himself with one hand, the other extended. “Give me my share.”

Trevor snorted, turning away from Michael and opening the stall door and leaving Michael and his hand waiting. “Christ, wash your hands, eh? That stubble of yours is getting long, those crabs you have might mistake it for your pubes if you start shoving shit into that maw.”

“Aw, fuck off, T.” Michael muttered, glaring daggers towards the back of T’s mullet. Trevor snatched the abandoned bottle from the urinal, smirking at Michael’s annoyance, watching him wash his hands half-heartedly. Trevor made a show of sidling up next to him, the wrapped package in one hand, the beer and baggie in the other. He twisted it around between his fingers, until it caught Michael’s eyes. “I don’t think I need to tell you this’ll taste worst than hot taint on a _moist_ summer’s day, but swallow fast.” Only when Trevor had Michael’s full, bemused and begrudging attention, did Trevor stick out his tongue. He placed the little bundle on it, eyebrows arching upward as his pink tongue disappeared and he took a long swig and swallowed it down.

Michael shook his hands dry, snorting as he took his share and bottle from Trevor. “Cheers, you resourceful fuck.” Trevor saluted back as Michael popped the bundle into his mouth; he held it too long, and grimaced as the taste started to seep through before he forced himself to swallow it down. He coughed, and Trevor slapped his back, snorting.

“C’mon. Give it thirty minutes or so, we’ll be on cloud nine. Now let’s find some girls, Mikey.” Trevor grinned, guiding Michael out.

Forty-five minutes later, Trevor felt the tide wash in. It started low in his belly, like any drug he swallowed did; and then, after fighting the momentary nausea, it climbed up, curled through his spine. In the darkness of the club, colors disappeared and then suddenly shined; the girl grinding against him, a sweet young thing, had the pinkest cheeks and the pinkest lips. She couldn’t hold his eyes; he looked out.

Of course, Michael caught his eyes. He hadn’t before realized that his eyes weren’t just blue, but _blue_. He was so sure he’d never seen that color before, and he wanted to dip his hands into the water of his eyes, pull them out, and let the iris drip wetly through the cracks of his fingers. He wanted to touch his face, touch his hair, touch his stubble. His face was ruddy as he leaned in to talk to a girl, hands sliding heavy up her ample waist.

He hadn’t noticed his own girl had left his groin for someone more engaged and willing. He took a swig of his beer, and wiped his mustache off with the back of his sleeve. His footsteps fell into pace with the base of the music.

“M—“

“T?”

“You feelin’ it?”

Michael laughed. Pools of blue had somehow been swallowed up by black in the moment it took for Trevor to get from point A to point B.

“A li’l bit.” Michael’s face was bashful. Lights flashed, and Trevor could see himself swimming in the big black pools of his eyes. Trevor stepped up to him. Michael didn’t step back.

Trevor’s hand curled around the back of Michael’s neck, flexed his fingers and held him there as he wedged a thigh between his legs. Michael was already swaying rhythmically with the music, and he seemed to melt into him while flinching away from his body at the same time. “T—“

“Shut up.” His breath ghosted against Michael’s ear as he rocked their bodies together. The cotton of his flannel’s collar bunched underneath the Canadian’s hands, and his fingertips teased the hair at the nape of his neck. He could feel _everything_ , the way the cords in Michael’s neck flexed, the peach fuzz hairs that stood on end; he wanted to fuck his neck, wanted to wring it, wanted to cup the soft flesh that was already pricking with sweat against the rough texture of his fingers. “ _Please shut up._ ” He exhaled, almost groaned into Michael’s ear as he was rolled with a sudden spike of euphoria. Michael’s arms came around him, fisted into his grubby long-sleeved tee, and held on for dear life as Trevor ground against him in a slow burn.

It was like the usual stuff, sure, but then it was _so much more_. And maybe it didn’t matter that they were in this shitty, loud club, that he was grinding on Michael of all people. Maybe it could have been anywhere with anyone, and he would have been rolling his balls off flying high no matter what. But then it was him, the nape of his neck melting underneath his hands, boiling hot and so bright.

Michael suddenly pushed him back, and Trevor’s face played confusion only momentarily before he was hauled bodily by the front of his shirt through the crowd. He was babbling, “Michael—Mikey, M, Michael, Mikey—“

The bathroom door swung open, and Michael’s hands were everywhere all at once as Trevor dragged him into the exact same stall, mercifully empty. Trevor shoved Michael up against the stall’s divider wall, rucking up the other man’s shirt, not even noticing that someone angrily knocked back. They weren’t even hard, (he didn’t think with this strength either could manage it) but all Trevor could do was grind against him; the feel of his boxers sliding, bunching up the leg of his pants, the pressure of Michael’s hot groin, his body, his heartbeat—

Their lips crashed together, inevitably; it was bound to happen, ever since they laid eyes on each other, ever since Trevor had decided that one pair of eyes was worth everything and the other deserved a flare to the socket. The feel of Michael’s stubble, rough against his smooth face, catching on his mustache made him moan openly, _desperately_ into the other man’s mouth. He pulled back, distracted by that stupid neck of his; his lips joined his hands. He wanted to explore everything. He was born again, and the slip-slide of their tongues and the clamminess of their hands made his mind completely, absolutely—

_quiet._

The worst thing about real strong, pure shit was the crash. Trevor had precious little dopamine to go around without the aid of drugs. His teeth ached after a night of vomiting word upon word upon word, straight from the gut to hang dumbly from his lips. His head ached. His chest ached. He had probably pulled something in his leg. He woke up in the motel bed the next day, lying beside a still-warm dip in the mattress and sheets that had been pulled back. His mother screamed in his head about how disgusting, how useless he was. When the sun went down he sluggishly ventured out with a brown-bagged forty and powder on his nose, and found a wandering cat. Wrung its neck until the fur had rubbed off and the bones had turned to dust, felt the blood drip between his fingers.

His stomach twisted; the pit simultaneously widened, and narrowed. He needed more. Something harder.

 _Besides_ , coke and ecstasy were for parties, and sometimes he needed a little more focus, didn’t need that body buzz that either gave him. His body was already sharp, under control. But his mind? Speed was amphetamine, coke’s sexier, big-titted sister, and it was just as lovely as coke to do lines of in the back of strip clubs without the same twitchiness and the fake euphoria. It kept the base thump thump of the music and the laughs of the strippers and the screams in his head much more quiet. But he needed more. Something more. Life went on, like it always did; air force positions were lost, family members died, best friends were met, heists were conducted, strippers fell in love, and life went on.

He tried heroin. It was one of those big bad drugs, the kind the cleaner, cleverer kids wouldn’t do. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck if his veins gave out and his eyes rolled into the back of his skull and right out of his head, so why not, right?

Trevor bought a dime bag in a little blue balloon from a man with big hands. He remembers, distinctly, the way the man’s stupid leather coat glinted from the faraway street lights, with some stupid biker patches all over it like a drug-peddling girl scout. (He remembers, too, how his mustache quivered, and how he mentioned that Trevor’s hair was just long enough to tug on, and how his blood looked on his knuckles.) It wasn’t his first time injecting something. When it wasn’t a social situation, he took to the ritual of the needle- the feel of tying his belt tight around his arm, the light _tink tink_ of his nail flicking against the side of the syringe, there was something intensely calming about it all he wouldn’t have the nerves or patience for in his older age.

He spent the night slumped behind a convenience store dumpster. His thoughts came out like treacle, heavy-lidded eyes staring at the sky as his head occasionally rolled back on his neck like a swivel. Someone was coming to get him. _No one_ was coming to get him. The paranoia thrummed through his bones, fed him a nourishment he needed, but didn’t want. He came to the next night, in a snowbank, bile in his throat and down his shirt and a deer carcass by his side. His bones ached for days afterward, whispered sweet nothings that Trevor couldn’t manage to scratch out of his skin, as hard as he tried. The dragon stared him straight in the eyes and scared him so bad he fell back ass over kettle. He didn’t chase it.

The clear upgrade from his beloved amphetamine was methamphetamine. They say when you meet your true love, time stops. He spotted her across the bar, after Michael hadn’t answered his phone ten rings later. Her hair was stringy, she was missing a canine, and she had a scab in the shape of North Yankton on her cheek that just really brought out the blue of her eyes. True love.

He was curious, and mildly aroused by the way she surveyed him back like a wolf. Trevor ate her out behind the bar. From below, with the white smoke billowing from her lips and her long nails painted the same purple as his Mother’s, she looked like what he imagined God and the burning bush must have looked like to Moses. Meth would be his manna, would nourish him as he was lead out of the desert to Canaan. He took a breather to reach up for the pipe, take a long hit that sent him coughing. The second was smoother. The third hit, he held it in long, spread her lips and blew it into her; she laughed like a fucking hyena, and curled those long purple nails in his hair and pushed his face forward into her muff. Meth made him feel like how he felt he ought to feel. It made him feel the way he thought he deserved- if Trevor could ever really admit to himself that he deserved anything- to feel. Meth made his mother’s voice dull, and much more soothing. He was strong and powerful, even if he ripped his own flesh off at times, or worked his lip bloody between his teeth.

Meth did not let him down. Meth kept him through the night, warmed his chest and swelled his brain. It kept him in North Yankton, and when he couldn't shake the cold from his bones it seduced him down to the arid desert of Arizona, and then lead him by the nose to beautiful, terrible San Andreas. He smoked it, he created it, he sold it. Meth was his lady.

Later, much later on, Trevor dabbled in other things. The quality of what he put in his body dropped steeply with time. Meth was his wife, but he had many mistresses. Various pills, unknown powders, crystals opaque and thick. He pulled whipits, spent a week once in his trailer with metallic paint smeared from his nostrils down to his chin. He always loved the smell of gasoline when he was pumping it into his car, while he was striding into a gas station store to rob, or just the way the smell lingered on getaway drivers post-heist. He would sniff it on occasion, imbibe in the sudden way his brain was surrounded by cotton and his vision blurred at the edges. Once, after running out of meth during a week-long binge, he soaked a round sponge in a bucket of the stuff. Wrapped it in a tattered, leftover t-shirt, and pressed the ring to his face. Trevor breathed in.

He came to, twelve hours later, lying in garbage.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, crits, etc. mucho appreciated. Please critique and let me know if my voice/characterization is right for these two, especially. Thanks for reading!


End file.
